


Just Hold On, We're Going Home

by orientinme



Category: Black Sails
Genre: But first Thomas spends some time in Bedlam, Thomas discovers Nassau, Thomas lives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-12
Updated: 2017-02-17
Packaged: 2018-09-23 21:18:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9678050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orientinme/pseuds/orientinme
Summary: After ten years of reclusion, Thomas finds a way out of Bedlam and back to where his heart is supposed to be - Nassau. Only things change - and so do people.--------------“I cared for a better world. I thought that this dream I had, of peacefulness, quiet, would be able to come to life in Nassau. Don’t we always wish for betterment in those lands where no knowledge can impede on our imagination, on our fantasies? In those days, I could think big because I knew little.”“Are those days behind you, Thomas?” The Priest asked, while fidgeting with the corners of the Bible he held on his lap.“They might as well have never existed.”





	1. I. A Church of Our Lady (that is named Bedlam)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ongi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ongi/gifts).



> This is a birthday gift to my Ongi, the most wonderful person I know. You're the most important person I have, I'd be absolutely no one and nothing without your continuous presence and support in my life, and - even more importantly - in my writing.  
> Je t'aime et joyeux anniversaire !

_**CHAPTER I. A Church of Our Lady (that is named Bedlam)** _

 

_**Bethlem Royal Hospital.** _

“A Church of Our Lady that is named Bedlam. And in that place be found many men that be fallen out of their wit. And full honestly they be kept in that place; and some be restored onto their wit and health again. And some be abiding therein for ever, for they be fallen so much out of themselves that it is incurable unto man.”

_ William Gregory, Lord Mayor of London, c. 1450 _

 

 

_**i. not the right answer** _

 

_Bethlem Royal Hospital. London. 1707._

 

“I cared for a better world. I thought that this dream I had, of peacefulness, quiet, would be able to come to life in Nassau. Don’t we always wish for betterment in those lands where no knowledge can impede on our imagination, on our fantasies? In those days, I could think big because I knew little.”

The walls were grey. The floor was grey. The bars that obstructed every window were grey. If asked, Thomas would have said that the air he breathed had a greyness to it too.

“Are those days behind you, Thomas?” The Priest asked, while fidgeting with the corners of the Bible he held on his lap.

“They might as well have never existed.”

The bells rung from somewhere near. It might have been the sound of something else actually; maybe someone washing pots and cutlery in the kitchen. He did not care to know.

“Do you repent?” The Priest asked. As he closed the Bible on his laps, Thomas felt a longing to brush the pages of the book, a need to feel the touch of paper beneath his fingers. No books. No books for such a long time. Only this one – that he refused to approach.

“I wish I knew.” He said.

It was not the right answer.

 

 

_**ii. become them** _

 

_Bethlem Royal Hospital. London. 1709._

 

“How are you feeling today, Thomas?” It was raining outside. He tried to summon the thoughts of a life where he did not know what constant cold felt like, but the mind cannot conjure that which the body can no longer experience. He inhaled deeply, trying to summon the strength to dialogue with the Priest.

These sessions exhausted him, but they were the only moment in his week when he could speak to a fellow human. Sometimes, across the hallways, he would try and communicate with the other patients but their madness was of the mind, not of the heart.

So he began to talk:

“I realized this morning I had not heard a single man scream during the night. No shrieks. No yells.” Thomas smiled, as if relinquishing the feeling he had encountered upon waking that day. “And then I understood that it is not that all men have been cured from their madness in a night – it is simply I who have finally become them. They do not wake me anymore.”

“It is good that you find sleep.”

But Thomas did not hear the Priest’s encouraging words and resumed:

“Maybe I will also, very soon, be screaming in the night, howling like an animal that has fallen out of its mind, out of its wits, without realizing it.”

“You are closer to sanity than these other men.” The Priest almost interrupted him. “If only you listened to me, Lord Hamilton, and understood that your sanity, your welfare – that _all_ is within your grasp; if only you chose to repent in the eyes of God and our Saviour!” Thomas looked up to the Priest’s face. He was surprised to hear such passion from the man, who had only given him reasons, week after week and year after year, to believe that he had stopped caring when Thomas had told him he had nothing to repent for.

“You do not know what sanity is, my Father. But let’s assume repenting was enough. You know nothing of the real reasons that brought me here. My father will never let me out of this place while I’m breathing. I cannot exist in the outside world anymore – I am too much of an unbearable burden to his legacy.”

The Priest closed his eyes, as if Thomas had just dealt him a blow.

“My son... Thomas… Lord Hamilton. Freedom is not beyond your reach. If only you listened… believed. Held the Book.” The man was in a state Thomas had never seen him in. Desperation oozed from his voice. It was almost sincere. But Thomas would not be fooled by his desperation. The man might have been sincere but his lack of knowledge of the real world, his devotion to imaginary words and creeds, made him utterly wrong.

“I know what it’s like, outside.” Thomas said. “I know I have forgotten what heat is. What pretty things are. I have almost forgotten how to talk like a man. But I have not forgotten it is my father who put me in a cell, to make me another man than who I am. I committed no crime. My love is not a crime. And _I_ am neither a crime, nor a criminal. Anything outside this cell is beyond my reach.”

He did not say out loud the thought that was the final conclusion: _Life is beyond my reach_. Sodomy was a sin enough in the eyes of the Priest, lest he added suicide to the list.

 

_**iii. too much shame** _

 

_Bethlem Royal Hospital. London. 1713._

 

He was there to feel remorse, to feel regret, to retreat into his mind, and from there, from the deepest part of who he was, to take away what he found. Take it out for the world to see, for him to apologize. To repent.

His madness – what _they_ called his madness – had no yelling, no shrieking. It had no nightmares, no hallucinations, no visions – only dreams of times past that left him sobbing when he awoke between the four bare walls of his cell.

Some names he never thought about too much, or too hard. He did not want them associated with the bleakness of this purgatory, of Bedlam, of this life his father had confined him to – if it could still be called a life. What is a life that you are not allowed to live as who you are? He could suffer the confinement. He could suffer his liberty taken away. But he could not suffer them to take what he was, _who_ he was.

There was too much shame in repenting. And he did not know shame.

 

_**iv. promise me** _

 

_Bethlem Royal Hospital. London. 1714._

 

“I know what you have been thinking about.” The Priest said.

Thomas did not answer. He held between his hands the Bible and played with the pages, holding them between his thumb and forefinger, feeling the distinctive and reassuring rattling of their sides on his skin with each iteration of his movement.

“Suicide. I can see it in your eyes. I have seen it in other men’s eyes before.”

“Does it matter still, my Father?”

“It does to me, Thomas.”

Said this way, his name sounded like it was uttered by a friend. They had known each other for almost ten years now. It was surprising for Thomas to realize he actually had some sort of affection for the man. Or at least some form of respect. It had been years now since the man had tried to tell him to repent or to ask forgiveness, or to do anything, really. Instead, they spent long hours talking, preferably of philosophy, preferably discussing whether Hobbes was utterly right or utterly wrong on human nature – or neither.

“Would you bring me a book?” He had already asked many times, only to be refused. But what did he have to loose in asking once more? He owned nothing more than his flesh and his bones.

“I will try. Maybe.”

It was not a “yes”, but it was still better than all the rebuttals he had encountered before.

A heavy silence, pregnant with nothing but time spent and gone doing nothing, settled. And then the Priest said:

“A man came to me, recently. He said he had been working in your household as a valet and wished to enquire as to your well-being. For the love of me, I would not be able to tell you how he found me!”

Thomas’ attention was caught. One of his former servants? Enquiring after him?

“I beg your pardon?”

But the Priest was suddenly lost in the contemplation of a crack in the floor in front of him. Tiny droplets of water made constellations. Thomas’ thoughts were running wild in a manner they had not done in years.

“You were a loved man, Lord Hamilton. Loved, and respected, and appreciated. But above all, loved.”

The Priest’s tone was wistful. He was very obviously craving for what he was talking about. He was also, very obviously, realigning some of his perceptions with the world that surrounded him.

“The man wished to know whether you would be discharged soon. The gravity of your situation. Given he lived in your house, he probably knows the real reason you are here, but he mentioned nothing. It is not many men who could yield such respect from their servants.”

“Was he tall and with copper hair?” Enquired Thomas, trying to identify precisely who was this man that still remembered him after the dishonour and the humiliation – and ten years.

“I should not _be_ here. That is not God’s will.” The Priest briskly stood up, leaving the Bible on the wooden chair. Thomas’ cell was too little to allow for much space and with one man standing up, the place seemed even more cramped.

“You are rambling, my Father.” Thomas interrupted. It happened more and more often these days.

“Do not take your life, my son. Do not do that.”

“You have to understand...”

“I have learned so much, and yet I know so little!”

Some patients down the hall had obviously been stirred out of their torpor by the exchange and were starting to yell.

“ _Suck a goat’s dick!_ ”

“ _Or a goat’s arse!_ ”

The yells were still a torture to his mind. Thomas covered his ears, only to feel a cold hand on his wrist. The Priest’s face was inches away from his.

“Promise me.”

“Would you mind leaving, my Father? Please.”

A few seconds passed:

“I will find a solution. I just need you to give me time.”

“I don’t need you to give me false hope. My life hangs by a thread, do you not see it?” Rage was not something Thomas was familiar with, even after all these years, he could not find it in himself to be enraged at the thought of everything he had been put through. He felt mild anger thinking about what must have happened to James and Miranda, but rage was a foreign feeling for him.

“I see it more clearly than you realize.” The Priest insisted. “I beg of you to give me time, Thomas.”

“For what?”

“Your father is dead. News of it just arrived to London. I assume you care as much as I do as to how or why that happened. That is not the matter. I just need you now to give me some time. I have come to understand that I do not belong here because _you_ do not belong here. With time, I might find a solution to help you escape this hell. So I need you to give me time, Thomas. Will you?”

 

_**v. with just yours** _

 

The docks had always been a strange place. Vibrant with life that, at first glance, seemed utterly unordained, harbouring a chaotic medley of people and cargoes, and yet functioning as smoothly as one could have hoped for.

The air smelled of salt and the docks of wet wood, a crude and tantalizing smell that felt so much like _life_ he could not stop inhaling frantically.

At his right side, the Priest was staring far off into the distance even though there was nothing to see but the crowded harbour of London.

“What will they do when they realize what happened?” Thomas asked. He could not find it in himself to truly feel worried. What the Priest had done for him was a blessing he had not thought possible.

“Who knows?”

And for the first time in the ten years Thomas had known the man, he saw him smile.

“You can reimburse me the fare of your passage to the West Indies when you send me a letter telling me you arrived safely.” This time, it was Thomas who could not help but smile. “And here is the letter your wife seems to have sent to your valet. The stamps indicate it comes from Nassau. She apparently goes by the name Mrs. Barlow – her maiden name I presume?”

“Her mother’s maiden name.” Thomas corrected.

“Well. I sure hope you are not going to loose the opportunity I just gave you by being foolish in your demeanour. Be careful. Stay low. Are you sure you wish for this? I could find a place for you, somewhere your past would be rewritten -”

“Where else would I go now that you have granted me freedom?” Thomas stopped him.

The Priest paused for a moment before putting his hand on Thomas’ shoulder.

“I have not granted you freedom. I have simply helped correct the injustice that put a man like you in a place he never ought to have been, not even for a single hour – let alone for ten years.”

Thomas would have plenty of time during his voyage to reminisce about what the man had done for him. He would also have time and space for his thoughts to wonder about Man’s nature and religion, and probably Faith, too. But for the moment he was holding Miranda’s letter as if there was no tomorrow – and until the day before, there had indeed been none for him. She did not say much about her, or here whereabouts, barely enquiring as to whether any news of Thomas had surfaced or not. She gave barely more than a name and ‘Nassau’ as a place to which a response could be sent to.

“May God’s blessings accompany your voyage, Lord Hamilton.”

“Oh, I think I’ll do fine with just yours. Thank you for everything, my Father.”

He extended his arm towards the man, in a gesture that was a blatant and utter denial of the power relation that had existed between them for the last ten years. The priest took his hand in a firm gesture and no other word was uttered until he boarded the ship.


	2. Keep wondering (where you and I stand)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still for my perfect Ongi. I love you.

**_CHAPTER II. Keep wondering (where you and I stand)_ **

 

“ _Your demons are a part of our reality._   _Such is the nature of the influence you wield. Some of those demons I’ve come to know, but **the one in whose name this war is to be fought** is still a stranger to me._ ” - “Long” John Silver

 

**_i. a distant memory_ **

 

_New Providence Island. 1715._

 

Thomas set foot on Nassau coming from the Carolina colony, which he found quite funny, given his late father had been Lord Proprietor of the place, a few lifetimes ago. Carolina had not been the original plan, but he had had to improvise with what he was given and, as Nassau came into view he felt as vibrant and joyous as the crew he was with.

This was no pirate ship, Thomas knew so much. Probably just one of those vessels that chose to look the other way when loaded with goods re-branded by the Guthries, though he had never had any formal confirmation of that fact.

 -

As he made his way accross Nassau’s jettyI, he thought it was a very good thing he looked like he had just crawled out of London’s sewers. A very good thing, indeed, a part of him emphasized as he passed past the beach, the huts on the sand with the drunk men sitting in the shade, and toward what he could make out as a city, for a lack of a better word.

The heat was inhumane, and it made every other smell even worse. Heavier, somehow. He could not understand how anyone dared touch meat that had stayed so long in such a heat. But, as he walked across the butcher’s stall, he realized that whether he understood it or not, people were buying said meat.

This place felt like another world altogether. For a thing he had imagined a future for, during so many hours, and so many encounters, for a place in the name of which he had fought bitter battles with his father and his entourage, it looked like nothing he could have ever imagined. He could blame indirectly his downfall on this place’s existence and future, and yet could not find it in himself to feel any negative feelings towards it. Some dreams of his, even after everything he had been put through, still found a way to resonate.

He knew that the more respectable settlers of the Empire were living further inland, westward of Nassau. They had a few plantations, gardens, but lived mostly of the fruit of a trade they barely oversaw, turning a blind eye to the things they were not supposed to see, as the Governor asked them to. The port and Nassau itself were barely more than a make-pretend, a vague simulation of order under the Guthries’ command.

Some intuition from past knowledge kept on reminding him he was susceptible to tropical diseases and countless other unpredictable trouble on his way to finding James and Miranda. But not even the prospect of malaria could prevent him from feeling a dizzying feeling of happiness at the thought he had put foot on the same land as them for the first time in ten years.

 -

As he started to make his way through the tiny streets, he grew receptive to a general feeling of weariness surrounding the place. The people here were waiting for something, as if at any moment the earth was going to engulf them, or some other calamity was about to happen. The only place that probably still reflected what Nassau was supposed to be like was the brothel, which blue façade made him smile as he made his way past it towards the governor’s siege of power.

Something was amiss. Because he came from far away and had spent his last ten years in a daze, secluded from the events of the world, he found himself incapable of setting his thoughts on one subject and one subject alone. A part of him, still vibrant from his former self and still capable of subtle and complex thought, knew that he should be tracing the events he knew of one to the other in an attempt at coherence. The worry. The quietness in the streets.

But the part of him that won over his mind was the one that had no willpower left for anything beside finding James and Miranda. Whatever was going on in Nassau was of little importance to him for the moment. He would maybe worry about it when he had time and after some rest. For now, he had to figure out how to go further inland – and where to go precisely.

 -

The guard – which he had learned was a guard solely based on someone’s information, given the man wore nothing to indicate his position – eyed him wearily. Well, even unequivocal terms such as “guard” had to be used with a very big pinch of caution around here.

“Beg your pardon?” The guard asked him.

“I’m looking for a secretary of some sort, an aide of the Governor perhaps? I need to enquire as to the address of a settler further inland.”

The man looked at him as if he had lost his mind. Thomas, considering the place he had spent his last ten years, found it ironically funny.

“Where the fuck you coming from?”

After a split second that Thomas used to refrain a smile, he said:

“London. I just have a letter to deliver.” If only _he_ could be the letter. Shit would get done, as they said around here.

With a sigh and something resembling pity, he was finally given an answer:

“Go ask the Guthrie’s woman’s men. In the tavern. That’s where she’s at. They probably have a registry of some sort. They’re the ones dealing with the letters that goes in and out of the island. But stay away from the bitch. And the town. The British are coming, but Captain Flint’s gonna remind them who’s boss. Your lot better stay in the shade.”

Thomas did not bother to enquire as to who, precisely, his “lot” comprised.

 -

The tavern was eerily silent when he came in. There were maybe three of four patrons and a bartender. The blinds were almost all shut and the place seemed like it had not opened the day before. Or even the day before that for that matter. Well, probably the tavern was just a pretext for whatever was happening upstairs. And the blinds shut? He should get used to being in one of those faraway places where people actually knew that staying away from the sun at certain hours of the day was more than advised.

He reminded himself then that those were _not_ faraway lands anymore. He was here. So were James and Miranda. And, in all likelihood, so were their futures. London, now, was as ‘faraway’ as it could get.

The bartender eyed him wearily. For a coastal city, home to quite a vibrant port, all of it nestled on an island, people were surprisingly weary of strangers. It was probably that not even the clothing could take away from him the demeanour inherited from his upbringing.

“I’m looking for someone who would know the address of a settler, farther inland. I have a letter to deliver.” He asked the bartender.

“Well, I could help.” The man answered. That was indeed a fair point. Why did he not think about it sooner?

“I’m looking for a Mrs. Barlow.”

The man gruffed, as if laughing with himself.

“The witch receives letter?”

Thomas, against his every instinct, did not correct the man or ask what it was that had given his wife this nickname.

“Well, if you follow the westward inland route, you should only cross a few plantations before finding hers. If you are in doubt, just ask the first settler you find. Their lot knows each other around there.”

“I am foreign here. How long of a walk is it?”

“Dunno. Just ask the first cart you find heading there to take you. I’d not recommend walking in this hour of day. Given your complexion and all...”

Thomas nodded appreciatively, thankful for the help, ignoring the jab at his whiteness. He wondered if he should stay and have a drink, but, once again, the thought that Miranda and James were so near stopped him for doing so. He left a coin on the barstool anyway and headed out. A young girl, obviously not a local, with blond hair and eyes that would have been deemed too cunning for a lady back in London, suddenly stopped him.

“You have dealings with Mrs. Barlow?”

“Yes.” He answered with caution.

“You’re coming from London?” She enquired. Her accent was weird to his ears. It was British, but somehow mixed. She must have been raised her whole life here.

“Somehow.”

The girl seemed both puzzled and suddenly curious.

“Well, I’m headed that way. I could take you there if you give me news from London in exchange. Does that seem a fair deal to you?”

Women in London definitely did not talk with such aplomb when properly raised. Except for Miranda. Miranda would make the whole House of Common shut it if she set her mind to it. Once on the cart and headed west, the young girl kept her gaze unwaveringly on the road ahead.

“I forgot proper introductions. I’m Eleanor Guthrie.”

Well, what was he supposed to say to that? Should he give his name, also? He had travelled under a fake identity until here. But they were out of the civilized world. Who would care? Well, he corrected himself, maybe the Governor’s daughter would, after all.

“Coleman Kennith.” He answered, borrowing the Priest’s name as his own.

“Neither your manner nor your countenance look like _Coleman Kennith_.” She mocked him. “But to each his own. In Nassau, your name is whatever the fuck you want it to be, I guess.”

Well... definitely not a proper lady, Thomas concluded.

 -

The rattling of the cart on the dirt road occupied the silence for a few moments. They began approaching something resembling green and, as much as he would have wanted to think about the wistful tone Eleanor had used, he could only think about James and Miranda.

All the questions he had refused to ask himself ever since he had learned they lived here, together, for fear he might create too much of an imaginary perspective, came rushing in. Had they married? What did Miranda look like? Would her hair have turned grey? What of James? He would certainly have retired his navy costume for something more local, wouldn’t he?

He had no idea how he would barge in. If he had been able to, he would have sent a letter ahead of him. But the Priest had told him that no letter would reach them before he did, if all went well.

Miss Guthrie had obviously told him something but he had been too lost in thought to register.

“I was wondering as to what is Britain’s latest thought on the subject of piracy? Would you happen to have word on the matter?” She repeated, obviously starting to get annoyed at his lack of receptiveness.

But she had started pulling on the reigns of the cart for the horses to come to a halt in front of a house and he became incapable of speech.

“We’re here.”

Eleanor was already on the ground, lacing the horses’ reigns around the fence. She had stopped paying any sort of attention to him as she walked up the few stairs to the porch and knocked on the door. He almost raised his voice to tell her to wait, just a few seconds, just a moment, just so he could get his composure ba-…

“How can I help you, Miss Guthrie?”

She was there. He could not see her - she was shadowed by Eleanor’s silhouette - but it was her voice. Never in a million years could he forget Miranda’s voice.

“Well, I need to talk to you about my father’s whereabouts. I want you to talk to Mr. Underhill on my -.” But her words got lost, and not only to him this time. He could not quite see it from where he was still sitting, on the cart, his eyesight having grown lacking for the deplorable hygiene conditions he had lived in for ten years, but it was undeniable Miranda had seen him.

She stepped behind Eleanor and moved a few steps ahead in his direction, stopping dead in her tracks before the stairs. She looked like both nothing and everything he remembered. He had woken up next to her for so many years, and, for all he could remember, always in joy and never in sorrow. And she was there, almost at arm’s length.

“Thomas...” It was barely above a whisper and he could neither see nor hear her say it.

The sun was high in the sky and the buzzing of a thousands insects around them was muffled by the heat. He stepped off the cart.

“Love...” It was the only word he could muster before he realized she had come rushing into his arms. He could embrace her only for a moment, for she was too eager to look at his face and touch and see him. He could only do the same, not quite believing that this, the stuff of dreams that had made him cry for ten years, was now real.

From upon the porch, both dazzled and confused, Eleanor stared at the couple with creased eyebrows and a visible notch of impatience in her eyes. That was not what she had come for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Transition chapter mostly! Last one to come in a couple days. Much longer than this one! Don't forget to leave a comment if you read, it would mean the world :)


	3. Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you Ongi for giving me the inspiration/motivation to write something lengthy for the first time in a while. Happy birthday love <3

“ _Every man has his torments. Demons born of past wrongs that hound and harass him. You perceive the effects of Captain Flint’s demons. Echoes of their voices. But I know their names._ _ **I was there when they were born**_ _. I know the things they whisper to him at night_. _” -_ Miranda Barlow.

 

 

“Eleanor, please come back another day.” Miranda said as she closed the door in the young girl’s face.

Thomas barely registered the exchange. There were way too many other things that had taken hold of his attention. He had to be selective – and yet he failed spectacularly at trying to focus his thoughts, and reflections, and manners. Every single detail was catching his attention – from how calloused the hand that was nestled in his was, to how the place smelled of plants he’d never smelled before, to how objects from a life long lost were scattered in this place, amid objects and furniture that seemed alien, both to his life and to his upbringing.

Is this where his loves had lived their ten last years? It did not look like it. This was the house of a woman, and a woman only. He let her sit him facing the fireplace. The wooden chair creaked and rocked a little but it allowed her to sit right in front of him, their knees touching, her hand in his hair, which, he could only assume, she must have found way too long.

“How?”

Had he expected speechlessness, he would have been disappointed. Of course his wife would not have been one for out-of-proportion displays of emotion. Actually, it felt truer to him to see her struggling in trying to keep her composure, rather than crying, or sobbing, or allowing herself to be overflown with surprise.

“It is a long – and quite dull – story.” He managed to say. “May we speak instead of how much I have missed you and James and how unbelievably happy I am to be here right now?”

That made her laugh, and sobs she was probably trying to keep in control made her choke up a little. He wanted to cry with her but he had cried too much this last ten years to let tears come anywhere near this moment.

“And, indeed, where _is_ James?”

She seemed to understand that this was a large question, that did not speak only of James’ physical whereabouts, but seemed also to ask where were his belongings, why this house seemed so obviously devoid of his presence.

“Oh my goodness, Thomas...” She laughed a little, a disbelieving laugh that bore amazement, joy and humour all at once. “You will not believe the stories he has to tell you. But this...” She vaguely gestured at him. “This changes everything.”

He held on more tightly to her, bringing both her hands between his. He thought he had only wanted to find her and James back so they could take them in his arms and tell him his nightmare was over, but he found himself also desperately needing to take her in his arms and comfort her. It brought him relief to know he could still do this, _be_ this to her.

“Tell me more, love. Tell me more.” He urged, also smiling.

She scrutinized his face for an incredibly long amount of time, until he stopped smiling and echoed her scrutiny. She was thinking when he could not do anything but stare and feel content. He began to worry, but only lightly – there was nothing in the whole world, at that moment, that could threaten his happiness.

And then she began her tale.

-

It was the tea cups that stayed in his mind, catching his attention. They were finely chiselled, a strangely civilized piece of a past long gone stuck in a place where the perspective of hot tea still seemed preposterous to him. He wondered where she had found them. And then he wondered if they had been aboard one of the ships James had taken, part of a cargo stolen by pirates.

When he thought about it, about _this_ , all he could picture were black flags adorned with white skulls fighting in the wind. The images that came to his mind were pure chaos and smoke – surely, there must be smoke during a forceful boarding? He could not picture James in anything besides his perfectly tailored navy uniform, despite every description Miranda had given him of a red-bearded, long-haired sturdy man with earrings and loosely fitting coats.

The new name itself rang hollow in his head. He prided himself in knowing those he loved (and in loving those he knew) and the reality of that name reminded him that most of the dreams and most of the thoughts he had had for the last ten years were probably based on false hopes and false imaginations. Where did Captain Flint come from? A man feared by the whole of Nassau, by the Bahamas in their entirety, a man revered by those whom civilization had deemed monsters – who was that man that had taken the body of the one he knew so well, he loved so much?

-

Miranda would not let him out of her sight, for even a second, and had told him that she had already sent word to Nassau to have James be sent back to the house the second his ship would anchor. She had babbled almost incomprehensibly about the necessity for her – and James – to tread lightly in Nassau, to only ask what could be obtained, and only to ask it from those they deemed trustworthy (and even those could only be deemed so according to external and continually shifting circumstances).

She told him to sleep, over and over again, and even though he wished to tell her no, to keep on listening her, on listening to the tale of the ten years he had lost, deep fatigue kept on settling in his bones. It was since the middle of the transatlantic voyage that he had begun to realize the incredible toll his imprisonment had taken on him.

He got used to resting his head on her lap, to fall asleep in mere seconds, despite his own objections to unconsciousness in times like these. His only consolation was that James might be there when he woke up.

-

In the meantime, Thomas encountered a very curious Miss Guthrie twice. She came back the day after his arrival to request a private conversation with Mrs. Barlow, talking about a Mr. Underhill and her father, apparently, but Miranda ushered her away in the same fashion she had done the first day.

The second day, a pastor visited, who stared at Miranda as if she was the Holy Spirit made flesh, and Thomas could only laugh from where he was seated on the veranda. The man and his funny oblong face did not know what to do with him and his presence and he excused himself quite rapidly.

“We are going to need to decide who you are.” Miranda told him once she got back to her seat.

“Can I keep my first name at least? Like you and James have.”

Miranda smiled and nodded appreciatively.

“Yes. And I can only assume my reputation being what it is already, I shall never have to burden myself with explanations as to why I am soon to be sharing my house with two men that are most definitely not my husbands.”

The devil was in her smile then and he could only nod with a spark in his eye that made him feel like himself again.

“This makes me recall… may I know the story behind you being called a “witch” back in town? I can only assume it must be quite an entertaining one.”

She laughed – an open, cheerful, joyous laugh.

“Well… It is unfortunately not the kind of story you must imagine. Not knowing who I am and not knowing who James was has led many people to assuming that the gentle puritan woman whom Captain Flint is often times seen with is actually the witch from whom he drew the power to become so rapidly and so efficiently the most fearsome man in the Bahamas.”

Thomas had decided not to cast any judgement upon James until he saw him. Surely… surely there was an explanation for what he still considered to be impossible and impossible to understand.

“I must confess I am quite disappointed in that story. I had imagined you taking up voodoo sorcery and doll-coaxing while I was away.”

Because humour had been lost to him for so long, the words tumbled awkwardly from his mouth. But Miranda laughed anyway.

“But going back to the identity matter. May I ask to be named Thomas Kennith? That would enchant me beyond measure.”

Miranda let her eyes linger analytically on his features for a while but added nothing. She had not asked a single question about his ten years in Bedlam and even though he knew he needed to talk about it, he cherished the possibility she had given him to only do so on his own terms, in his own time.

-

When Eleanor came back a second time, Miranda ushered her in. Offering a cup of tea while Thomas sat near the empty fireplace, she listened to the young girl’s requests. It amused him to no end to see such a frail looking person assert her thoughts so persuasively and aggressively in front of a woman such as Miranda. But the young Guthrie was apparently bossing pirates around for a living, so, surely, she must have learned long ago to bare her fangs first and ask questions later.

Because Thomas understood little to anything that was said, he barely listened and remembered close to nothing. Eleanor stopped coming afterwards, and Thomas had no idea if they had parted whilst agreeing to anything or not.

-

“Thomas?”

He and Miranda had taken to a form of coexistence that soothed him ; she had very rapidly learned that he had grown weary of too much physical contact, that parts of his body hurt in the morning – his knees and his left hip, probably arthritis, though the heat made it better than it had been in London -, and that he very easily got overwhelmed with sounds and other kinds of sensory stimulations that he had not seen coming.

In that moment, the tone of her voice made him weary. They were laying down on the bed and night had begun to fall in the strange and colourful way it did here. Propping himself on his elbow, he gave her a quizzical look.

“Yes, love?”

“James will arrive shortly. Tonight, or tomorrow probably. And I need you to know that it will take time for you to recognize him. There are days when I myself don’t recognize him anymore. And it’s okay. He’s still there, beneath it all. All I ask of you is time. For you to him. And I will ask the same thing from him to you.”

Thomas did not like the fear he heard lurking underneath her tone.

“Is he _that_ different?”

“What happened to you… it made him someone else. With every passing year, every new information we had coming from London that borrowed our hopes to ever see you back, a new nail was added to his coffin. Sometimes we wished you were dead, because being powerless was such a horrendous feeling – we wanted revenge and we wanted war and we wanted you… we could have only two of those things. Revenge, and war, and circumstances have added helplessness without us asking for it.”

The words hang in the air for long minutes.

“I just want to see him, Miranda.” Thomas finally said.

-

It was the end of the morning, and the noon heat was building outside. Thomas was exploring what was to explore – he did not like to go outside very much yet, still eager to get a hold of his surroundings in the house. He had found _The Meditations_ quite early on, but the painting of him and Miranda was a recent discovery that he enjoyed thoroughly, for mixed reasons and despite everything it represented. Not many men in the world could claim for themselves the pleasure of never once regretting a marriage and this painting was a perfect embodiment of that realization.

He heard the now usual sounds of horses trotting by the house but, despite what happened usually, they did not fade away down the road and instead came closer. Thomas’ nerves suddenly became as stretched as violin strings; he did not like the feeling of apprehension that followed.

Miranda’s footsteps echoed loudly as she raced her way to the door, but she was apparently beaten to it by a loud kick and the door being forcibly opened with a loud _bang!_.

A few seconds of silence went by that he used to make his way to the front room. The first thing he saw was three man standing, armed from head to toe, all three of them pistols in hand. Yet, Miranda’s hands were on her hips and she seemed entirely in control of the situation – to his utmost surprise.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” She yelled at them.

“You said to come immediately! I thought someone had come or who knows what the fuck could have happened to you that you needed help. You obviously seem fine, though.” James snarled.

It was ridiculous, Thomas thought. He was supposed to be running towards James the way Miranda had ran towards him the first day - but he was legitimately scared of disrupting the moment and creating unnecessary tension ; the two men standing behind James looked particularly on edge and particularly scary.

That was when Miranda gestured in Thomas’ direction.

Thomas cursed his eyesight for the hundredth time – he was standing across the room and had no idea what expression fell upon James’ features. He could barely see his shoulders suddenly sagging, his pistol coming to rest on his side once his arm was lowered. The two other men were also looking his way now and had stopped waving around their guns, which he considered an improvement.

What Thomas wouldn’t have given in that moment to just… -.

“Joji?” James said in the most neutral voice he could apparently muster. “Bring word back to the beach that I am to be absent until further notice. Tell Dufresne to take no decision until prior consultation with Mr. Silver and Mr. Degroot. Now go. Send word here if the need arises.” Both men reacted in less than a second and time suspended itself until he heard the sound of the horses being sprang into gallop coming from the exterior.

And then, carefully and very slowly, James began to make his way towards him. As he came closer, Thomas could finally read the emotion that prevailed on his features: utter disbelief. He could only smile at that because there it was again, that feeling that Miranda had almost made vanish with her warnings: utter, complete, and unadulterated happiness.

James was older but more sturdily built than he remembered. He had earrings and micro-scars on his face, and long hair, and a creasing between his brows Thomas had not anticipated to be there.

“Is this real?” James asked, stopping a few feet away from him, all neutrality now gone from his voice.

Thomas smiled as reassuringly as he could.

“It is, my love. It is.” And he bridged that last amount of space left between them to kiss James for the first time in ten years.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked this fic ! I'm considering making this a series, who knows.
> 
> You can follow me at orientinme.tumblr.com and please consider leaving a comment if you read :)


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